


The Hearts of Man

by GrandOptimist



Category: Jane Eyre - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Force Awakens - Fandom, The Last Jedi
Genre: Awkward Ben Solo, Awkward Rey, But mostly fluff, F/M, I need to stop with the tags, Jane Eyre - Freeform, No regrets though, Possessive Ben, Possessive Kylo, Size Kink, a lot of flirting, and flirting, and his kid loves him very much, ben is a daddy in this one, but here i am, but there's a lot of things in this fic for my purposes, for my purposes Rey is a Kenobi, jane eyre au, so does Rey, soft boi kylo, the Jane Eyre AU no one asked for, there will be angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 02:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19368379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrandOptimist/pseuds/GrandOptimist
Summary: She looked up at me then, bright eyes almost disapproving. “He says I may not tell—they are secrets. Papa says secrets are keys to the hearts of man, and to relieve secrets without permission is as good as stealing.”OR: Rey Kenobi becomes the governess to the child of the mysterious master of Falconhill, who finds her just as intriguing.





	The Hearts of Man

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in YEARS, but I got the bug and I couldn't stop. I am hoping that this fic will be less than ten chapters - at least that's what my outline says - but I am writing by the seat of my pants.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Miss Kenobi, you’ve a letter.”

 

The headmistress’s voice echoed through the hall, startling most who sat in it, especially the children at the tables closest to the head of the room. I looked up with wide eyes, and before me was her hand, a letter within it. I took it carefully, as if the sudden movement of my hand would cause it to disappear, and deposited it into my pocket. I returned back to my porridge, gray and dull like a blunt knife, and refused to look up until the headmistress took her seat at the end of the table opposite of me. The children—my students—peered at me curiously.

 

When I walked the halls during the afternoon break later that day, I heard the faint, girlish whispers: _“Miss Rey got a letter—she never gets letters. I wonder who wrote her…”_

 

Only later, in the privacy of the room afforded to me as my position as a teacher, did I open the missive; its sender, a woman named Organa-Solo, wrote to me in the hopes of acquiring my services as a governess for a child in her care.

 

I barely read the last line—a beautiful, loping signature surely written in the hand of a noblewoman—before I went to my desk and wrote a swift reply. My hands trembled as they affirmed her hopes, as well as my own: No longer was I an unwanted orphan at Jakku School; instead, I was a woman of experience and talent, a governess for the charge of a lady with the means to afford me.

 

I packed that very night.

 

* * *

 

My expedition was long but hardly strenuous. Mrs. Organa-Solo took care to pay for my travels and riding fares, so I spent my passage on a singular carriage alone, though I minded not. I read as I traversed England, pausing to observe the myriad of greeneries around me when I found them pleasing, and thought impatiently of my new life.

 

By the fifth day of travel, I gazed rarely out the window—I’d witnessed many a field along my journey and found myself bored of them—and my consciousness just began to slip into sleep when I spotted a dense thatch of trees just ahead of the little dirt path my carriage rode upon. I perked up, and the first peak of a tower broached into view: My introduction to what the driver then identified as Falconhill.

 

The sprawling estate was light gray in colour, its bricks windswept and worn. It stood proud against its surroundings, beautiful and regal in its own right despite its weathered appearance. Two towers were connected by an extensive house, as regal as it was messy: It looked haphazardly built, as if someone would complete the project only to start again. However, the manor fit into its landscape as though it had always been there, an extension of nature itself, and there was a modesty to it that charmed me.

 

The carriage pulled up to the back entrance, and I was greeted by a short, plump woman with graying dark hair intricately braided into two buns on either side of her head. I smiled minutely at her through the window, and she offered me a grin. My driver, a nervous man with golden hair and a stutter, threw himself down from the carriage with a polite “ma’am” directed at the unknown lady before me and stumbled to open the carriage door.

 

“You must be Reyna Kenobi,” the woman said. Her voice was kind like her dark eyes, but it held an intonation that belonged to that of a highborn lady. My name nearly made me flinch: It sounded undignified coming from her lips.

 

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” I answered as I clutched my bag in my hands.

 

Her smile was soft but short-lived, and she turned to my driver with little preamble. “Where is Miss Kenobi’s trunk, Threepio?”

 

Mr. Threepio bowed his head at the lady. “Pardon me, ma’am, but the y-young lady told me she had none.”

 

The woman turned to me, and I nodded in compliance, my face burnt with embarrassment. The lady simply nodded and turned, gesturing for me to follow her. I did so with my head down.

 

The lady, as it turned out, was the writer of the letter: Mrs. Leia Organa-Solo. She was a retired politician from London and the mother of the master of the house. In her retirement, she contented herself Falconhill’s modest housekeeper and proud grandmother to my pupil, a beauty of a girl named Hanna Solo.

 

The little girl had dark, cascading ringlets that filled the air around her pale, freckled face. Her nose was large, but not ungainly, and I saw the tips of her ears peeking out of her curls. Her eyes, a bright and piercing blue, held intelligence out of a place for a girl so young, but Leia—as she insisted I call her—assured me that it was just in her nature.

 

“Hanna is a woman trapped within a child’s body,” she chortled. “She chases maturity as a dog chases a cat.”

 

However, as much as Hanna yearned for adulthood, she decidedly was a child. Her manners, though precise, were timid and shy, bashful to a fault, and it took many weeks for her to warm up to my company.

 

We spent hours together in the schoolroom—a large hall full of books, trinkets, and the master’s personal collection of geodes—that was lined with windows and conversed about a variety of subjects. Hanna preferred the arts over the sciences, though sometimes she indulged my excitement about mathematics with genuine questions. I learned swiftly that beneath her serene and introverted demeanor lied a quick wit and biting stubbornness. More often than not, I found myself coaxing her into propriety, as little Hanna was prone to outbursts whenever she found herself particularly frustrated.

 

When I confided my worry to Leia, she eased my mind with the admission that, as a child, Hanna’s father was quite similar.

 

“Though I do hope you raise her better than I raised him,” Leia added over afternoon tea. We sat in the front garden near the pond, overlooking the sprawling foothills upon Falconhill’s property. Hanna was some ways off, playing with her dolls and small china set that Leia had purchased a few Christmases earlier, out of range from our conversation.

 

I sat with my hands folded in my lap, schooling my face. Leia was a brave woman who bent not to social convention, but she stunned me nonetheless with her direct candor. Jakku School had taught me that a woman with opinions was as insolent as a tantrummy child, and Leia’s words were nothing if not opinionated.

 

Seconds ticked, and Leia sipped from her tea. I could feel the opportunity for further questions slipping, and my mouth opened of its own accord: “The master is not a good man?”

 

My voice squeaked in its hurry, and I flushed as Leia gently replaced her cup back to its plate.

 

“I would not say he is a bad man,” she replied, “but my son has failings that extend far beyond that which I can reach.” She looked tired after her words, as if saying them stole her energy, and I dared not press further.

 

Instead, I found more information from Hanna herself, who brightened considerably at the mention of her Papa.

 

“He teaches me of poetry,” she whispered as she practiced her cursive, “and of art. He says DaVinci hides secrets within his paintings.” The words lilted in my ears, and I smiled fondly at the little girl.

 

“What secrets does he say?” I pressed, keeping my tone light.

 

She looked up at me then, bright eyes almost disapproving. “He says I may not tell—they are secrets. Papa says secrets are keys to the hearts of man, and to relieve secrets without permission is as good as stealing.”

 

~

 

I soon grew restless at Falcon Manor; my limbs tingled with the need for adventure, to further taste the freedom that being unchained from Jakku School presented me. Leia took notice of my agitation one evening at supper, when I could scarcely pass a minute without fidgeting in some capacity, and bid me to deliver her weekly letters to the post just a two-mile walk from the house.

 

I took the offer easily, happy for a break from the reoccurring scenery. Hanna watched me, eyes anxious, as I walked away from Falconhill, and guilt threatened to creep up on me with each passing step. Eventually, I found the trodden path amongst the trees and the ankle-height grasses and allowed my mind to wander as aimlessly as my feet, entertaining fanciful ideas of woodland creatures following curiously from the safety of the dense thicket on either side of me. I was nearly at the end of the little forest that encompassed Falcon Manor when the frantic whinny of a horse and the excited bark of a dog broke through the silence, and a large shadow covered my vision from behind.

 

Yelping in fear, I dove out of the way as a man upon a giant horse rode past me, towards the direction of my destination. To my horror, the horse reared, startled by my sudden movement, and fell upon the muddied path, its great large belly landing upon the ankle of its rider, who howled in pain.

 

“Get up, you damned beast,” a deep baritone shouted. “ _Get up!_ ”

 

The horse shuddered as it made its way to its feet, but the man remained firmly on the ground. A large dog, shaggy and brown, circled its way around him with a high-pitched whine. The man yelled for its silence, and the creature minded its master immediately, sitting down at his side before looking straight at me.

 

The man remained on his back, his hat askew upon his head, and his black hair covered most of his face. Even from the ground, I recognized that the man was massive; his shoulders were broad enough to nearly cover the entire width of the path, and his feet nearly touched mine from where I stood in front of him.

 

“Sir!” I exclaimed. “Are you alright?”

 

“Do I look alright to you, witch?” he hissed, his head still against the ground. I ignored his words in favour of shock—he was an American.

 

“Do you need help standing?” I asked, thinking of the mud surely soaking into his wild mane of hair, but when I made to help him up, the dog propelled forward, a growl upon his lips. I gasped before jumping back as the man’s hand shook me away. I obeyed him, eyeing the dog as I stood out of the way, as he sat up. I started again at his movements, and he flipped his hair out of his face and looked up at me.

 

 _What a strange man_ , was the first thought to float through my mind. His face was—odd, but not unpleasant: His eyes sat high on his face, paired with a large nose and full lips, and his jaw came to an almost uneven conclusion. His dark hair touched his shoulders, which were covered by a thick, black coat, unsuited for the light heat of the autumn day. He looked every bit the traveler, and I had just invaded upon his plans.

 

He cleared his throat, and I realized I was staring. My cheeks flushed, my body tingled, and I huffed a brash apology, which sounded winded even to my own ears, and my face heated further.

 

“Who are you, girl?” he muttered after a moment, placing his hands upon his knees before launching himself off the ground. As he stood, the dog followed his movements. I watched, wide-eyed, as the man found his balance; he favored his left ankle and cursed loudly when he attempted to put any weight on it. “It’s sprained,” he said, looking up at the pale blue sky.

 

I remained mute. He was a head and shoulders taller than me, the tallest man I’d seen, and I found it cumbersome to keep my eyes firmly on his face, which turned to me.

 

“Well?” His tone was impatient.

 

“Well, what?”

 

“ _Who are you?_ ” He was a man of station, that much was clear, as he seemed unused to repeating himself.

 

Warnings came to my mind, said in the words of a mother who was long-since dead: _Do not tell a stranger who you are. Do not reveal information to men who may use it against you. Do not allow vulnerability where vulnerability is not obligatory._

 

“I am the governess at Falconhill,” I sped through the words as though they burned my mouth. “I am delivering post for the housekeeper there.”

 

“The _housekeeper?_ ” He threw his head back in a laugh that was almost violent.

 

His laugh was vile, almost taunting, and I snapped back at him, “ _Yes_ —the housekeeper…” Almost as an afterthought: “…sir.”

 

He transfixed me quite when he did not respond but simply _looked_ at me down his nose. The urge to huddle into myself, to fold my shoulders and submit to his will, unfurled within me, but a spark made me hold firm. I held his gaze fiercely, as his eyes raked down my body. I suppressed a shiver.

 

“Help me back to my horse, girl,” he ordered abruptly.

 

I did nothing.

 

“ _Please._ ”

 

Reluctantly, I moved closer and took his weight upon my shoulder. His masculine warmth against my body inspired sensations that I found peculiar, but I batted the thoughts away as I hobbled with him to the black stallion. He retook the horse’s reins with ease and swung himself atop it with familiarity, though he grunted when he hooked his left ankle into the stirrups.

 

I expected him to bolt, but instead he readjusted his hat, which nearly fell off when he mounted the horse, before looking towards me. He was even taller when perched upon the stallion, who huffed and kicked uneasily at the dirt. I stepped back, eyes upon the large hooves, before locking eyes once again with the man.

 

“I forgot your name.”

 

I frowned at him. “I never gave you my name, sir.”

 

His mouth twitched. “Well, may I have it now, Miss…” He trailed off, expectant, and the foolish part of me wished to ignore his request. The rebelliousness I felt had lied dormant since my forced-attendance at Jakku School, but something about this man re-inspired it.

 

I refrained. “Rey Kenobi, sir.”

 

He nodded curtly, pacified by my admission, before clearing his throat and grasping at the reigns more firmly. “Walk safe to deliver the post…” A pause. “…Miss Kenobi.”

 

With a swift cry of urgency, he directed the horse forward in a gallop, the large dog bounding behind him. I watched until I could see him no longer, but I lingered even more. Minutes passed before I turned around and continued my trek forward. It was not until I made it to the clearing, until the forest surrounding Falconhill dissipated and the little town emerged in front of me, that I realized that the man had returned from whence he came.

 

Back the same way. Back to Falconhill.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave your kudos and comments - they are food for the soul.


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